Shadow Warrior, Skeleton Mage
by Morrigan the Nightmare Queen
Summary: A rogue assassin is nearly murdered by Blood Raven, but a paladin, a barbarian, and a necromancer find and help her. For two of these, it's hate at first sight. Or is it . . . ? Chapter 2 will be up soon. R/R please.


Author's Note/Disclaimer: I don't own Diablo 2 or any of the characters/concepts. And yes, it's awfully bad in the beginning. Bear with me- it'll get better. I promise!  
  
  
CHAPTER ONE: A Stench of Death  
  
Though Justinian didn't like the situation himself, he knew beyond a doubt that the icy necromancer was wrong. The two, as well as the Northman Spann, held a certain duty to less experienced warriors; especially one that had done them a great service, and nearly died from it. The paladin rose from the fireside and, picking up his crystal sword, strode into the tent. Three healing potions and a strong poison antidote- rare, and very expensive in this part of the world- were wrapped in a torn cloth, and Justinian cradled the glass flasks carefully as he ducked under the tent flap. Involuntarily, the holy man winced. There was a strong stench of death in the tent.  
  
Then he saw the reason why.   
  
Two fresh skeletons, their jutting bones still traced with dirt and blood, stood on either side of the pallet where a single pallid figure lay. Their creator himself stood at the foot of it, gazing expressionlessly down on the her face, yew wand still held in one ghostlike hand. Justinian drew in a sharp breath, fighting to quell the rush of anger that the necromancer's brazen actions brought; he knew it would only result in another argument, and would accomplish nothing. The other man was as stubborn as he was corrupt, and would listen to nobody, god, demon, or both together.  
  
"Alasdair." Justinian grated. "What in the name of God do you think you're doing?"  
  
The tall death mage turned around, crossing his arms and quirking one colorless eyebrow at the enraged paladin. Grinding his teeth, Justinian repressed a shudder of revulsion. The necromancer always disgusted him, even with magic aside. Unlike most of his order, Alasdair's pale coloration was a result of a genetic mishap instead of age, but he used it to his advantage- the sight of the two blood-colored eyes, staring emotionlessly from an unlined face framed with white, created a macabre combination of death and life which Justinian still found unnerving. Long, pale fingers adjusted themselves, gaining a more comfortable grip on the wand, while the skulls on his shoulders leered sightlessly at the angry priest.  
  
"You issued instructions to watch over the young one, in case of her awakening." A humorless grin flashed across the necromancer's pale features. "I was compelled to heed the word of a servant of the Lord, so I came."  
  
"I told Spann to watch." Justinian tightened his grasp on the crystal sword. "As I recall, you objected to even bringing this one back to camp, let alone healing her or standing guard. What are you really up to, Alasdair?"  
  
The necromancer feigned innocence. "Spann was hungry, and I felt compelled to do a favor for a fellow traveller. I am merely doing as instructed, your Holiness. Weren't you telling me yesterday that I would do well to learn humility? I have learned it, and now you are abusing me for it."  
  
You? Humble? Don't make me laugh. "And the skeletons?"  
  
"Reinforcements, just in case of a rude awakening." Alasdair fingered the wand meaningfully. "You know well the tales of this type's volatility. Even such a young once can be dangerous, and I should hate to have to Raise a holy man like yourself. 'Crisis of faith' wouldn't even begin to describe it."  
  
About thirty foul euphemisms immediately sprang to Justinian's mind, but he forced them down. "Dismiss them. Now."  
  
Alasdair muttered a few guttural-sounding words, made a gesture with the yew wand, and the skeletons left the tent. Justinian relaxed, but only very slightly.  
  
"You too. Out."  
  
Now feigning hurt, the pale mage leaned against one of the tentpoles. "The young one should at least meet all of us at one fell swoop, paladin. I've sent my constructs to fetch Spann- he should be along in a minute. Once we're assembled, you can begin praying or what have you, and neither Spann nor I will have to suffer from whatever tales of us you tell to this child."  
  
It was biased reasoning, but Justinian knew that the necromancer was being very sensible. "Very well," he conceded, as a confused-looking Spann was shoved into the tent by one of the skeletons. "But stand back, both of you."  
  
"Stand back from what?" Spann asked as he joined Alasdair by the tentpole. "What's he doing? Is the kid awake?"  
  
"From his foolish faith, he's being disgustingly altruistic, and if the child survives his idiocy then she may wake up." Alasdair replied without missing a beat. Spann paused for a moment to translate that statement, then:   
  
"Oh. So he's doing some healing magic?"  
  
"If you could call it that," Alasdair muttered.   
  
. . . ow . . .  
  
. . . where am I . . .   
  
I'm warm. Haven't been since I left . . .   
  
  
"Milady? Can you hear me?"  
  
  
Another's voice . . . man. Friendly.  
  
  
"You're wasting your time. Put the stupid little beast out of her misery."  
  
  
. . . second man . . . hates me. Why?  
  
  
"Quiet, Alasdair!"  
  
  
. . . a hand lifts my head. I taste the bitterness of a healing potion . . . a warm sensation spreads through me as my torn flesh begins to mend. The headache is fading . . . peace . . . hands on my forehead . . . sleep . . .   
  
  
  
Three days later . . .  
  
  
"How is the stranger?" Akara questioned, handing the blue-and-gold Tome of Town Portal to Spann.  
  
"Doing alright," Spann replied, taking the tome. "Thanks . . . she got awfully torn up by Blood Raven, but she's mending nicely. Of course, Alasdair was all for letting the poor kid die and maybe making a construct out of the corpse, but Justinian told him to shove it up his aaaaaaa-" The Northman caught himself and blushed. "Uh- sorry about that, ma'am."  
  
"Don't worry about it," the priestess replied, smiling slightly. "I've lived with warriors my whole life, Spann. Trust me, I've heard far worse . . . ah! Look!"  
  
Spann turned and stared. The flap on the medical tent was raised, and a single, slightly unsteady figure wrapped in a threadbare gray robe was making its way towards them, unfazed by the two skeletons that followed it at a distance. As it stepped forward, into the light, Akara reached out one gaunt hand and halted the stranger's stumbling footsteps.  
  
"Be calm, my child. You're among friends now. How do you feel?"  
  
Raising her head, the young assassin stared with reddened eyes into Akara's blind ones. "I-" she rasped, voice hoarse and dry. "I- I don't know. Where am I?"  
  
"In the Rogue encampment." Spann stepped forward quickly, catching the young woman's hand in a friendly gesture. "Agh'haleach- my name is Spann. My friends and I found you in the cursed graveyard."  
  
An unsteady smile flashed across the shorter warrior's face. "A Northman? You must have thrown the maul which broke her bow. You and your friends saved my life, Spann." She squeezed his hand, and the barbarian found himself blushing. "Thank you."  
  
Akara smiled again, and extended her hand to the assassin as well. "I am Akara, the High Priestess of the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye. I saw you once in the camp, before you left to find Blood Raven, but I do not recall your name."  
  
The assassin's face flickered with some strange emotion for less than a second, but whatever it was vanished when she looked back to Akara. "Janus, a sister of the Assassin's Guild."  
  
"The mage-slayers?" Akara's voice was quiet, but commanding.  
  
Janus twitched. "Yes. But mages have nothing to fear from me now. I am the black sheep of the order- they disdained me, and gave me the most menial jobs. For that reason, I abandoned their sanctuary and set out to show them what the witless bastard of a dog can do-"  
  
"By slaying the greatest magician of all, the Lord of Terror- Diablo." Akara supplied. "A noble goal, and an admirable spirt, Janus. But, I fear, a hopeless one. Greater and wiser beings than you, or I, or even Spann have tried and failed. I fear that the true power of this world died with Tal Rasha."  
  
A defiant spark flared in one gray eye. "That may be, but I must try," Janus said coldly. "I won't limp back to the others now. I'll do it, or I'll die trying!"  
  
"That can be easily arranged," a chill voice said behind her.  
  
  
Janus spun around, hands and feet instinctively falling into a guard stance. The voice had fired a synapse somewhere in her brain, but she couldn't tell where from- as it was, she would have remembered its owner . . . !  
  
Tall and imposing, long white hair flowing untamed around a cold and ageless face, gleaming red eyes looking down condescendingly at the young woman who dared to make a move against them. Repressing an involuntary shiver, Janus steeled herself and raised her fists again, ready to fight this . . . creature. Only one thing in heaven, hell, or earth could forge that kind of pure, icy hate out of a man. The stench of death. The yew wand. The bone armor. "Necromancer!" she hissed, voice dripping with pure loathing.  
  
"Is that any way to greet one of your saviors?" the chill man asked amusedly, crossing his arms. Though he had dropped condescension in favor of humor at her expense, the aura of winter around him still remained, no matter what his mood. "I knew well that assassins favor no mage, but I had expected at least gratitude from you."  
  
Janus ground her teeth. "I owe you nothing!"  
  
"No? As Spann said, he and his friends saved your life. Though it's hardly an association I'm proud of, I was one of that motley crew- and I was the one who summoned the wall of bone which protected you from Blood Raven's firestorm. But then, I suppose I am asking too much . . . expecting manners from a bloodthirsty wildcat."  
  
The young woman's hazy memory stirred. Blood Raven's final shriek . . . her ravaged form exploding in a firy hurricane . . . too weak to run . . . wall of bone erupting . . . white-haired man . . . picked her up . . . carried her back to camp . . .   
  
"So I recall. You did." Janus lowered her hands. "But for that insult, I'll give you no gratitude. You would only hold it over me anyway; I know necromancers."  
  
"On the contrary. Necromancers can be most gracious."  
  
"Yes, they are very nice about removing your vital organs first."  
  
"Have a care, little assassin. You're treading on thin ice."  
  
"Better drowned then forced to share a camp with you!"  
  
"You'll be drowning in the river with a rock around your ankle if you're not careful."  
  
Akara sighed as the pair glared at each other, the loathing evident to even her blind eyes. "Childen, children," she said, "Cease this bickering. It will accomplish nothing. Young Janus- Justinian, the paladin, is in the kitchen tent if you wish to speak to him. He leads the group which found you."  
  
Janus looked at Alasdair and bit back another comment, instead turning to Akara and nodding. "Thank you." Turning her back on the necromancer, she slipped into the shadows and made her way towards the canvas tent. 


End file.
